


Hook or Me this Time

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: (of a sort), Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, Canonical Character Death, Endeavour (TV) season/series 7, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22941520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: “The Neverland, Morse. Come on, we need to go, I want to be back before sunrise.” He is serious. Morse’s heart hammers.It's 1970, Thursday and Morse are at odds, there's trouble in Oxford and there is a man in bedroom, telling him to jump.A retelling, of sorts, of series 7, through the lens of Peter Pan.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Fred Thursday, Endeavour Morse & Jim Strange, George Fancy & Endeavour Morse, Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse, Peter Jakes & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 15
Kudos: 31





	Hook or Me this Time

**Author's Note:**

> i mean what were u expecting from the girl who owns 65 copies of this book. the shows has an episode called neverland for gods sake lol 
> 
> thanks to iloveyoudie for telling me i should go for it and write this!! i have had a lot of fun with it!! 
> 
> time wise this is happening in some hazy part of series 7, though ludo/violetta dont get much of a mention. this is mostly a fic about thursday and morse but the others pop up, any excuse to write george fancy. its very magical realismy im sorry, neverland is weird ass place. ive done my best to keep true to both morse characteristics and peter pan world building? there's touches of Peter Pan in Scarlet too with the whole wearing clothes thing so like yeh. idk this was more a passion project that anything else, but i do hope you enjoy! lemme know what u think! 
> 
> ** TW for descriptions/mentions of blood, suicide, self harm, murder, death (some of which are canonical) and injury **

_ Oh grow up. _ The words spin around his head. The last words Thursday had spat at him after another sharp exchange. Whatever had been pulling them apart, it was getting worse. They were drifting from that old easy comfort. Morse was shedding some of his wistful thinking, the last shards of rose spectacles crumbling away. Thursday was getting older, growing weary. They didn’t see the world quite the same anymore. 

_ Grow up. _ It was ridiculous. All Morse had done these past years was grow up. It’s what this job did to you, what this world did to you. Hardened you up to the reality of it all. Yet Thursday, always ten steps ahead couldn’t see that, thought Morse still clung to some silly notions of right and wrong. If he did, Morse didn’t see what was so wrong about that. 

_ Grow up. _ Morse is still simmering, still bitterly turning the words over in his head as he storms off, sick of Thursday’s face twisting into a scowl, of the way he looks at Morse with such disdain. He can bloody well drive himself back to the station. As his feet cut a quick path across the road, something flashes across his vision, startling him for a second; just long enough to catch his foot on the curb, and take a graceless tumble to the floor. 

_ Grow up. _ The words rattle around his head, as he is flooded with blinding pain. It feels like his head had been split in two. There’s the sound of voices above his head, exasperated sighs as he feels himself being hoisted to his feet and bundled into a car. 

There’s a period of time where someone tends to his head, a nurse with pretty eyes presses butterfly stitches across a gash and then vanishes just as quick as she came. Thursday pushed him back into a car and he promptly falls asleep in the passenger seat, rather against any instruction from the doctors. When they get to Morse’s door, Thursday goes to offer a hand, but he shakes it off, grumbles a half-hearted thanks and staggers off to the door alone. The house is dark, cold but it’s familiar. It still smells like paint and white spirit downstairs, the mix making him more lightheaded than he is. Forgoing food and drink, and even a trip to the bathroom, he just about manages to disentangle himself from his clothes and pull on an old tee, before the call of his bed has him dead to the world. 

He sleeps, dreamless, for a few hours, till a sudden shift in his mattress, and the weight of something on his bed jerks him awake. His eyes snap open and he pushes himself up to find - Peter Jakes? Yes, Peter Jakes, sat at the end of his bed, leafing through a casefile he’d left on his desk.

“What the hell?” Morse croaks, staring his old sergeant down. Without looking up Peter nods.

“Hello Morse,” he says, turning an evidence picture about in one hand. “Sleep well? Good, we have a long flight ahead of us. Get your coat or something, come on.” 

He’d not aged a day, though it’s been years now. Still as slick and arsey as he ever was. Morse remembers the curled photograph, the one that had arrived at CID some months after he had left. Peter, in some garish shirt, collar popped open and grinning wider than he’d ever smiled in Oxford, a bundle in his arms; his daughter. Fatherhood looked good on him, they’d all agreed though what he looked like now, years of American summers later was anyone's guess. This Peter, the one sitting at the foot of his bed smoking has none of the softened edges growing up had afforded him. He wore his coat still, the collar turned up against a non existent chill. He glared at Morse, flicked ash to the floor and stared expectantly. 

“Well?” he asks, as if Morse is supposed to know why he is here. Morse sits up, struggles from the sheets and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. His head hums vaguely with drug-numbed pain, but it is enough to make him irritable. 

“What?” he spits out, one hand reaching out to swat at Peter. He isn’t here, he was in America, and even if he was in Oxford, how on Earth is he in Morse’s room? He’d moved at least twice since then, he didn’t know where Morse lives. Yet his fingers strike an arm. Peter rolls his eyes, grits his teeth in that way he does when exasperated. 

“You coming?” He throws the end of his smoke on the floor and grounds it out on the carpet. As he does, a few skeleton leaves flutter from his sleeves, soft amber and gold. One curls and burns away as the embers hit it. There are more, beneath his coat. Like crawling vines, they were there if you looked; peeking out from beneath his collar, curling up behind one ear. The more you looked the more you saw.

“Where? What- why are you here?” Morse asks, still thoroughly confused. Peter shrugs and stands, begins wandering a sweeping arch through Morse’s bedroom. His shoes leave mud on the carpet. 

“I like to come listen sometimes,” he says, running his hand over Morse’s mantle, leafing through the pictures and letters he has tucked up there. “You talk sometimes, about work. The cases. I like to listen.” 

Morse thinks back, to only a few nights ago, when he had hefted a thick stack of papers from his bag and spread them across the floor, sat between them all, turning clues over in his head. He tries to remember if he did it outloud, but figures he must have if Peter is looking at him now, rattling off case numbers and suspect names as if to prove it. It’s strange, hearing his voice once again turned to crime and murder. Morse is loathe to admit it but in the first few weeks after Jakes had left, he had almost imagined him there, a sort of sounding board for his thoughts. The way he had always rebuked him, argued with him seemingly for the sheer hell of it, it helped Morse keep up with it all, to question things more. The voice had faded over time but hearing Peter, here and now, even this strange, ethereal-boy version of him, was bringing it back again. 

“Okay,” Morse says slowly. “But why are you here  _ now _ ?” 

Peter spins, and doing so sends yet more leaves tumbling to the ground as his coat flaps about him. 

“I want you to come back with me,” he says, grinning now. 

“What are you talking about?  _ Where _ do you want to go?” 

Peter wanders towards his window, and with practiced ease slides the lock open and hauls it up. One long leg is flung across the ledge, and Morse’s heart leaps to his throat. He can’t be serious.

“The Neverland, Morse. Come on, we need to go, I want to be back before sunrise.” He  _ is  _ serious. Morse’s heart hammers. 

“Peter get down,” he says, standing. He inches across the carpet, tries to remember every negotiation tactic he’s read. Peter laughs, a harsh sort of sound, and swings his other leg up. Now he sits with both feet dangling, his hand on the window frame the only thing anchoring him to solid ground. 

_ “ _ Morse. You know you want to. It’ll be just like it used to be. Come on. ” He goes all sing-sing sweet, teasing. He wavers on the ledge, nearly tips from it. Morse scrambles for something to ask, something to draw him back in. 

“What are you on about?” 

“God you always ask so many questions don’t you. Just come back with me.”

It’s not working. Peter leans forward, rises off the ledge and fear sweeps through Morse. He steps forward again and is suddenly quite lightheaded. The room spins and he can hear his heart pounding in his head. Peter leans further out of his window, fingertips barely holding onto the frame anymore.Morse thinks about the messy driveway below, the unfinished wall with its sharp bricks. Peter will kill himself if he jumps. He staggers closer, arms reaching to snatch him back. He can’t just let him do this. Peter laughs, and the sound feels like an axe to his head. It hurts, so much, that he can’t help a wounded sigh escaping as he presses his thumbs to his eyes. Why does it hurt so much? He crosses the last few steps and fumbles blindly for Peter’s coat. His fingers meet solid warmth for a second, before Peter falls, snatched away by the winds. 

Morse screams. 

“Aww you do care!” Peter’s voice says, and Morse might be sick.

Somehow, against all odds, Peter is there, standing outside the window as if the ground were still beneath him. He’s flying. 

“How the fuck- what are you- how are you-” words fail him. He snaps his jaw shut and his teeth clatter and it makes his head ring. 

Peter’s hand reaches out for him, his eyes calling. “Come on Morse. Come with me.” 

It’s impossible, it has to be - but he’s dancing on the wind, ignoring gravity. The wind ruffles his coat and a few leaves spin around him. 

“ _ How? _ ” he asks, blinking slowly. 

Peter waggles his fingers. 

“Have you got your happy thought Morse? You’ll need it.” 

Happy thoughts, he’s not sure he has many of those left. He remembers the old days, the years before. The time when life was just easier, when it wasn't so complicated and twisted. When the lies did not come so easily, and the arguments were not so fast. He does miss it, Peter is right. When there were people to turn to, when things were good. Oh god when did it all go so wrong? 

“Morse?” Peter breaks through his despairing. “Come on, it’s easy. Come with me and this all goes away. No dark, no cold. No growing up Morse. Leave it all behind.” 

Leaving, is that what he wants to do? Is that what Peter is, he realises with a sort of resigned relief. The last snatches of his mind, trying to tell him to jump, to end it all? Is this him reasoning that it's time, he should just call it all off now. To die would be an awfully big adventure.

It wasn't like this before, when he had tried it alone in the bathroom with his father's razor. Perhaps this was the concussion, or the codeine. Perhaps it was just his time. Perhaps this is what everyone felt like. This must be how you knew. 

Somewhere between his heart and his stomach, something pulls on him. A bone deep longing, a soft sweet sense of promise. He wants to follow Peter. Yes that sounds about right; follow Peter. 

What does anything else matter anymore? There's nothing here for him now, he handed his papers in already. Kidlington calls him come the New Year, but really what would moving do? Just push him into another person's life, someone else he can get all mixed up with; another series of mistakes he can make to leave another family ruined. 

Thursdays voice, once again.  _ Oh grow up Morse.  _

Sure that's an option. Or there’s this. The easy out. 

Peter’s eyes look soft now. Morse didn't even realise he’s reached out too, that their hands are almost touching. He’s leaning out of the window now, legs pressed against the window sill. His hand hangs in the air, wind whistling through his fingers. Peter’s are dirty with gold, something smeared across them like glitter. 

“Come on Morse just one happy thought.” 

He thinks for a moment, of Joyce. The one person who through it all, still actually seems to like him. He was supposed to go see her next month, her birthday. Her present is under the stairs already wrapped, the first time in his life he’s been that organised. He’d probably forget to take it anyways. 

But she’d still smile, laugh and swat his arm.

_ ‘Oh Endeavour…’  _ He never minded her saying his name. Nobody else could, but his little Joycie. 

For a moment his heart felt light, with the sound of her laughter.

Then he jumped.

And found, quite impossibly, that he was flying. 

* * *

Morse couldn’t say how long they flew, but not long into their journey, he can do it without Peter’s hand on his. He’s smeared golden dust across his hands, and face, so the pair of them shine like stars whenever the moonlight hits them. Morse thought he would have felt cold, only in his cotton trousers and a night shirt, but the air is warm somehow. Peter even unbuttons his jacket, revealing the messy lining within; it’s patched together with leave, no wonder he keeps shedding them. The whole thing is layers upon layers of fallen leaves, lined with sap. Like a tree, growing around him. Peter catches him staring, throws a fistfull of the things at his face and then laughs. Speeds off ahead, and Morse is left paddling his arms to catch up, but by the time he does, he’s laughing too. 

He still hasn’t thought to ask Peter where they are headed, and he reasons that he should, but before he can it becomes quite clear. There’s a light in the distance, brighter than any star, and it sings to him, quite literally. The smooth sound of a record, spinning in the hazy heat of summer. 

Peter’s hand finds the small of his back and he nods. This is it, he supposes. They break the clouds, and suddenly, they’re there. Some hundred miles below them, on a sea of deep blue sits an island. The music is louder now. 

They follow it down, and Morse feels for the first time, in ever such a long time, that he is coming home to something. Peter leads them down, through the clouds and canopy, till they land softly on the muddy grounds of a clearing. Trees tower about them, all sorts, their leaves catching the sunlight and giving off the warmest green and yellow tones. 

For a while Morse is lost in the beauty of it all. It’s all the bright colours of Oxford, all the summer skies and autumn leaves at once. Here, it is daytime on the left, night on the right, and the in between lands are a perpetual middling. A dusk in violet hues, soft ambers at the edges. Flowers grow like Max’s garden, Morse recognises the way those ivy tumble down a crumbling wall, and the smell of the roses blossoming beside the pond. It’s enchanting. This place is every perfect afternoon he’s had, languid comfort in all it’s glory. There’s a bench tucked between two aging trees, and somehow he knows this bench exactly, and knows if he sits on it he will feel as though he has just finished the most puzzling crossword. He isn’t sure how he knows, but he does. 

As he follows Peter through the trees and flowers, the spongy dirt beneath their feet gives way to smooth varnished wood, the long boards that lined the colleges. Their shoes echo on the floors, as around them appear smooth sandstone bricks, which as they get closer, reveal themselves to be entire buildings. Almost as if this land is changing around them, they find themselves inside an aged building with a roaring fire, a wide table and several plush looking chairs. 

Jim Strange is already sitting at the one closest to the hearth, looking more rumpled than Morse has seen him in weeks. Again, at first glance he looked as normal as ever but the more one looked, the more one noticed. 

Dark trousers were scuffed about the knees, mud splattered carelessly up the cuffs. A jacket that had been repaired so many times, it was hardly the original jacket at all, hastily sewn in red and black threads, barely hiding the seam between fabric and animal furs. There was something quite wolfish about him. 

What Morse had thought to be dark circles under his eyes might actually be dirt, or something of the sort, applied on purpose. It gives him a dark, dangerous edge especially as he twists a pocket knife around his hands, carving shapes in the table. 

At the sound of their feet, he perks up, and a smile flashes across his face. 

“Alright,” he says by way of greeting. Peter nods, kicks a chair out from under the table and falls down into it, limbs akimbo; king of the castle it seems. Leaves flutter around him, in a growing pile under the chair. 

“How’s things?” he asks, as Morse circles the table, looking for a place to sit. He picks the chair opposite the pair of them, and watches. Illuminated by the fire, in their peculiar clothes, there’s something otherworldly about them. Some part of Morse knows this all to be a dream, something in his own head, but it can’t be either because since when has he had the wonder to dream such lovely things? That, and as he runs his hand across the table, or the mismatched arms of his chair, he can feel it. Every part, all of it, the whole island; singing. Humming. Alive and breathing. It’s a heady, intoxicating feeling, the world that seems to respond to his very presence. 

At that thought, his fingers suddenly close around the stem of a glass, an overfull merlot appearing in hand. Peter and Jim barely bat an eyelid at the sudden appearance, at the fact Morse seemingly  _ willed  _ the thing into being. Peter simply snatches out a hand, and  _ just like that  _ there’s an apple in his hand, ruby red and shining. He chews on it noisily as Jim spins tales of whatever the island’s been doing. Morse listens with half an ear as he drains the glass, which refills when he finishes. It changes, between sips between fine wines and good scotch, and a nice whiskey every now and then. 

He has by now almost forgotten his initial fear, his natural wariness. There’s no fear here, in this warm comfort, watching old friends - who more and more are looking like young boys - throw sticks into the fire. Morse feels like perhaps he could stay here forever. Dream or not, this place is quite wonderful.

“It’s been a few days, Peter, that’s not like him,” Jim is saying, as Morse eventually returns his focus to the two of them. Jim is looking concerned, biting at his lip and Peter runs a hand thoughtfully across his chin, a cigarette between his lips. 

“We’ll go out and find him,” Peter says, and his eyes flick over to Morse. “Right Morse?” 

He feels as though he should have been paying more attention, because he has no idea what the pair of them are on about, but he nods like he does. 

“Mmm, yes - sorry  _ who _ ?” 

Peter frowns. 

“George, Morse. He’s gone. You really should listen more,” he grumbles, swinging up from his chair. He slaps Jim across the shoulder and smiles. 

“You search the north side, we’ll take the south? He’s around here somewhere I bet.” 

And like that, Peter sweeps out of the room, and Morse is left staring into his glass, it’s contents sitting heavy in his stomach now. 

* * *

They spend some hours searching the woods, Peter scouting the topmost trees, Morse the undergrowth. The further they walk the quicker night seems to fall. The island is not so pretty at night, more unsettling. The aged branches of the trees drag across the sky like spiders legs, and there are all manner of creatures rattling through the foliage. Their eyes, bright red or luminous yellow, peer out at Morse, unblinking. He hurries his steps and catches up to Peter, who has pulled a torch from his coat and is swinging it around as they walk. 

The trees thin eventually, and turn quite suddenly to a sandy beach. Morse supposes, in daylight, the sand would be hot and lovely beneath his feet, but right now it’s cold and damp. He thinks he really should have found some shoes before running away like this, so the soggy stuff didn’t stick to his feet so much. Ahead of them, a rock face - quite literally - juts out from the side of some cliffs, an opening near the edge lapping up sea water like a drowning man. 

“Skull rock,” Peter says as they pick their way across the rocks and pebbles. It does resemble a skull of sorts, in the very least it makes Morse’s gut clench in the same way real skulls do. There are large gaps in the side, what could pass for eye sockets, and Peter suggests they head through that way. There’s a hidden nook on the inside he says, already halfway up, flying. Morse doesn’t know he’s got the happy thought to sustain that, and goes to clamber up the rocks. 

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Peter sighs, looping an arm through his and carrying him up. Cold wind whips at them sharply, but once they land inside it dulls to a thick, muted sort of cold. 

They crouch behind a towering stalagmite up on some ledge within the caves, a slimy thing that leaves moss under Morse’s nails. Water laps at the rocky floor below them, and above the sound of the waves can be heard the distant sound of a rowboat. Peter waves at Morse to keep quiet as it approaches, but Morse shoves past him anyways. It earns him a dirty glare, but he shrugs it off, intrigued by what he sees as two figures appear in a rowboat. Only as it pulls up against the pebble heavy shore and the occupants jump out does he make out faces. Box and Jago, pulling between a shape which as they lay it out and tie it to the rocks, Morse realises with a sinking feeling is George Fancy. 

Pale faced and limp, he’s stretched out across a rock, rope around his neck, stringing him up to die. Morse’s stomach twists. 

“What exactly happened?” he hisses to Peter, horrified.

“Lost boys get caught wandering sometimes, it happens,” he says, with such coolness it’s sickening. Morse looks incredulous. “What?” Peter asks with a shrug. “I wasn’t here to stop it, what could I do? Someone else ought to’ve saved him.” 

Guilt swirls in Morse like the dirty puddles beneath his feet. 

“Well we have to do something,” he insists, glancing through the gap of the rock once more. 

George looks small like this, from afar. His shirt ripped open, a tie around his head like a drunken schoolboy. There’s blood on his chest, and handprints too, bruises blossoming black and blue. The water is up to his waist already. His head lulls on his chest, and as Jago kicks him into place, it rocks. 

Jago laughs and the sound bounces off the walls. 

Peter looks at Morse, almost bored. 

“Go on then. Do something.” 

Morse thinks this must be punishment. It has to be, because he knows George is dead, has been for years. He’s buried in a churchyard in Oxford, not the bottom of the sea. But there he is, pale face catching the moonlight, chest still trembling. Peter still looks at him, with a perfectly horrid grin and Morse is furious. He’s not sure if it’s with Peter, or himself at this point, so he turns his back on him and pulls off his shirt. He throws it across Peter’s face, gets a disgruntled huff in response before clambering to the edge of the ledge. With one last look back at Peter, who is sitting quite content, flicking at a lighter, he curls around the towering rock face and slips into the water. 

It’s cold and he nearly gasps out loud at the shock of it, but swallows it back down. At least that water is fairly still, and he can see a little ways ahead of him as he swims. When his head breaks the surface, close to the rock and tucked from view,

Jago and Box are deep in some conversation that he doesn’t care to listen to. They’re distracted long enough he can swim up to the man, no - boy - and start pulling at his binding. He tries not to notice how blue he looks, nor the soft, wet, wheezing noises coming from him. Treading water, Morse almost has the noose undone when the voices stop, and his splashing is all too loud. 

“Oh look,” Jago’s voice slithers through the air, oily. “The Wendy-bird’s come. We've heard about you,” Morse doesn’t spare a glance upwards, too focused on keeping himself upright in the dirty water. Something thick and fibrous brushes his ankle as his fingers work at the knots around Fancy’s arms. He flinches, but keeps up his work.

“The captain’s canary,” Box purrs. “Flown the nest, finally come back to roost, eh?” 

A strong arm shoots out as though to grab Morse, so he kicks back, avoiding their hands. Where’s Peter when you need him? He might think this is all a game but Morse is certain the pirates would tear him limb from limb given half the chance. 

“Aw come on, don’t be shy,” Box coos, Jago’s laughter bouncing around the cave around them. He whistles, a haunting sound. 

“C’mere birdy, let’s take you home,” he calls, fingers snapping like he’s calling a dog. Morse finally looks up at them, looming large over the side of the water. There’s no doubting these men are pirates, not with the billowing shirts and the swords hanging from their hips. Box has rings adorning nearly every finger, and Jago’s got tattoos crawling across his chest. A heavy cross sits around Jago’s neck and Box has his tricorn hat sat at an angle. Pirates. They had never been Morse’s favourites, even in storybooks. 

“Captain’ll be dying to see you I bet,” Jago says, and Morse’s stomach twists. He doesn’t know their captain but a sinking feeling in his gut tells him who it is. Before he can say a word, Jago draws his sword, and lays the point across George’s heart. 

“Come with us, or I’ll end him now Morse. Come with us, I might let him  _ go _ .” 

Morse swallows. George, at the cold metal laid across his skin, shudders. He moans softly, and Morse’s jaw tightens. There’s really only one answer he can give. He kicks, swims the three strokes to the waters edge. 

Then a voice booms across the cavern, and every man stills. 

“Leave him alone!” 

Morse might have been worried to, if not for the appearance of a leaf, floating across the water, it’s spindly points waving at him as it bobbed. This was no pirate. Peter’s voice floats down, in an impressive echo of Thursday.

“I said, leave the bird alone,” the voice rumbled, and the two idiots scrambled upright, swords dangling limp from their fingertips. “The boy’s good as dead anyway.” There was a cruel smile in those words, but they did the job. Jago pressed the edge of his blade to Morse’s cheek, as if cupping it. 

“Not tonight then, little one,” he whispers before kicking at the rock and propelling the rowboat back out to the sea. Morse keeps one eye on them as they go, but is distracted as the knot comes loose beneath his fingers. George slips, finally free, right below the water and Morse has to duck under to haul him up and out. 

Breaking the surface, he spits out water and calls for Peter. 

“Help me, would you?” he calls as Peter jumps down from the rocks above them. Together they haul the boy from the pool, and spread him out across the floor. It’s cold, the poor thing is trembling. Out of the water, the blood doesn’t wash away so fast, it pools on his chest where a bullet has torn through his side. As Morse hurries to tear a length off his shirt, to make some sort of makeshift bandage, the boy's eyes flicker open. 

Water trickles from his lips as he cracks a smile. 

“Morse?” Hope flickers in his chest. 

“Yes, George, it’s me- now stay still, I’ve got you,” he says, motioning to Peter to turn George on his side. “Hold on, this is going to hurt,” he says, throwing the strip of fabric around him. The choked half-scream it pulls out of him is heart breaking. This is punishment, Morse thinks again, the cries and the blood, it’s all his punishment for not getting there sooner. 

“We have to get him back,” Morse says, in clipped tones. Peter, finally, has stopped looking so smug and is nodding. Between them, they lift him, and Morse manages to dreg up his happy thought again as the pair of them fly him back to the hideout. 

As they land beside the faded door, the tumbling flowers that mark the hideout, Peter flits on ahead, pushing the door open. Morse, who by now has hauled George up in his arms and is holding him to his chest like a child, follows after. Jim is already up and clearing the table, throwing things to the floor so Morse can lay George out. The worry in Jim’s eyes is clear as he sheds his jacket and slips it beneath George’s head. Without it, he looks smaller, younger still. As if wearing it, he was playing make believe that he was a grown-up. Now he wrings his hands uselessly and hovers. 

There’s voices then, behind them; Peter returning to the light with another boy in tow. Or perhaps, a man, Morse can’t be sure anymore. He seems distantly familiar, bright eyes and a head of gently curling hair. He’s in trousers far too big, the ankles rolled up, and a baggy shirt that gives him the look of someone who has raided his father's closet. 

Peter throws something into his hands, a pair of shattered spectacles and a ratty tie, and the boy slips them on, ties a quick bow around his neck - and suddenly he’s no boy - of course, this is Max. 

Peter claps a hand on his back and nods at Morse. 

“He’s the smartest of us all,” he says by way of explanation. He points to the glasses, which surely Max cannot see out of. “See, doctor.” 

Max bends over George, and Peter drops a bag beside him, full of mismatched tools and odd scrap ends. Morse watches him pull out the strangest combinations. A thermometer is slid between George’s lips, a bundle of dirty rags to his wound. Max looks over him with a thick magnifying glass, holds a glass to his stomach and listens through it. Then he looks up and sucks in a breath through his teeth, peeling off the glasses and handing them back to Peter. 

They all watch him anxiously, Morse staring incredulously, because surely he hasn’t done anything useful. 

“Well, it doesn’t look good,” Max says slowly, packing away the things. 

“But we put a bandage on him,” Peter says, quietly. Morse is struck again by how childish they sound, and a sick sort of feeling swirls in his gut. They’re playing make believe over a dying man. He curls his fingers against his palm, hopes the sting of his nails will wake him up, but they don’t. He has the horrible feeling once again that this isn’t a dream at all. He really is stuck in this strange otherworldly place, where nothing seems to work as it should. 

But then Max straightens, looks at the makeshift bandage and hums thoughtfully. 

“Oh well then that might have done it,” he says, quite confidently as if that’s changed it all. Then he peels back the tattered piece of Morse’s shirt, now stained red, and Morse gapes. Because the hole in George’s side is gone. A strange sensation, like a feather being dragged across his skin, creeps over Morse. 

“Ah yes gentlemen,” Max says,throwing the strip of fabric onto the floor. “See here, you did quite well. I believe he’ll make a full recovery.” 

George stirs then and they all freeze. Nobody beathes for a moment as his eyelids flutter, and then a gentle sighing breath escapes him. 

“Fetch some medicine, will you?” Max asks Morse, looking at him with twinkling eyes, eyes that he recognises, eyes that he trusts. So even though he has no clue what to do, and is quite sure there’s not a drop of pharmaceuticals on the island, he hurries to the chests where Peter has pulled seemingly everything from. He digs through the contents, an array of odds and ends; old books, worn out clothes, broken toys, a trinket box of old medals, the tooth of a big cat, an empty bottle, a golden betting chip, a shotgun - all sorts. Till at the bottom he finds a crystal glass, a little dusty but unchipped. He tosses it between his hands, thinks hard to capture the islands magic and then blinks. 

The glass, now full of a sickly sweet smelling syrup, is pressed into Jim’s hand, and Morse watches him ease it down George’s throat. Max stands back, arms behind his back and nods solemnly, Peter bites down anxiously on his thumb. Then George smiles, pushes himself up onto his elbows and grins. Colour floods his cheeks and Morse can’t help stepping forward, and wiping the blood from his face with his thumb. 

“George?” he asks. 

“Hullo Morse,” he says, voice thick but smiling. “Good to see you again.” 

Relief fills Morse. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he’s not going to question it. George Fancy is alive. 

Jim bundles him off to bed not long after that, and Morse watches in muted wonder that the kid can walk most of the way by himself. The bed is less impressive, little more than a mattress on the floor and a mountain of pillows and blankets, but George doesn’t seem to mind. He falls into it, and Jim beside him, and it doesn't take long for either of them to drift off.

Morse returns to the table in the middle of the room, stopping beside the fire to warm his hands. Max potters by, heading out, and Morse almost lets him before he sees the meter long spear he’s holding. 

“Where the hell are you going with that?” he asks, wide eyed at such a weapon in his dear doctor’s hands. Max, looking ever so slight without his usual clothes and accessories, fixes him with a sharp look.

“Fishing, Morse,” as if the answer was obvious. 

Just like that, all returns to the comfortable, sedate comfort of before. Morse finds himself suddenly quite exhausted, and treks over to the mattress. Somehow even with the pair of them in it, there’s still plenty of room. He plucks a plump looking cushion, and finds a thick quilt and stakes out a spot for the night. Sleep comes quickly, and he barely hears the other two as they traipse into bed after them. 

George heals fast; the next morning Max’s ministrations have worked miracles it seems. He’s up before Morse, pottering about the echoing hall as Morse finally pulls his head from the pillows. The sound of bare feet on the floorboards draws his eye, and he finally gets a look at George. Like Max, his clothes are ill-fitting, though perhaps on purpose. His trousers have been torn at the knee, suspenders hanging unused about his hips. He still wears the shirt from last night, once a brilliant white no doubt, now yellowed and dirty. He wears the bloodstains like a badge of honour. There’s still a tie around his head, it keeps his over-long hair from his eyes. Morse has the strangest feeling he recognises it. He’s sure there’s a similar one hanging in his wardrobe back home. 

Home. For a brief moment, he thinks of Oxford. He wonders how long he has been here, for it feels much longer than a few days. Had anyone thought to come looking for him yet? Though, now he thought about it, who would? There were people, he was sure, who would notice him missing, but the longer he thought on it the harder it was to remember who. Their names were on the tip of his tongue, but fell away like sand between his fingers. 

He shakes his head to clear the sleep, and whatever he was trying to remember dies off. He pulls himself from his blanket, steps over Jim’s sleeping form, nearly trips over Peter’s legs, and has to inch around Max. 

He wanders over to George. There is breakfast today, Max’s catches from yesterday, sitting in a pan that George occasionally pokes at, a few vegetables tossed in alongside them.

George smiles and slides one onto a plate, offering it to Morse with a smile. There’s no cutlery, so they eat with their hands like heathens. Morse remembers faintly the times someone, a woman he thinks, used to yell at him for eating with his elbows on the table, and picking bones from his teeth with his fingers. He does both now, with glee, as does George. They grin at each other across the table, fingers messy and chins a state. Morse thinks this is the best meal he’s ever eaten, and is about to say so, when George lobs a soggy piece of potato at his head. 

It lands in his hair, then falls sadly onto the plate. For a brief second, Morse sees red - how dare his constable- but he’s no constable, is he? And Morse is feeling less and less a sergeant every hour. He can’t explain why, but instead of snapping, he grabs a fistful of his own food, and with a marksman's aim throws it in George’s face. 

And just like that, war erupts. Food is flung, plates tossed at heads. George clambers atop the table with a whoop, and swipes at Morse. Punches are thrown, legs are pulled, Morse gets a kick to the ribs at one point. They wrestle each other to the ground, smearing the last scraps of breakfast across each other’s faces. George cackles as Morse lands a serious punch to his gut and wheezes at him. 

“Morse, you  _ ass _ !” Morse merely laughs in reply, using the opportunity to swipe George’s wrists and pin them to the floor. 

The fight won, they both laugh breathlessly at each other. If anyone had cared to look at that moment, they might have noticed how young Morse looked, a boyish grin on his face, his cheeks round and flushed pink. The hands of time were whirling backwards, the years falling off of him. Detective Sergeant Morse was fading away.

Over days that followed, he faded still. Though he was every part the person he always had been, as they all were here, more and more it became harder to tell. Moments when one might mistake them for boys became more frequent. Less and less would you hear Morse’s record warbling through the hideout in favour for singing, loud stupid songs with no meaning, or fits of laughter or the hollering and screaming of little boys at play.

At some point these men were nothing more than children. They would barely come up to your middle, bar Peter who still towered a head above the rest (that was, afterall, what made him the boss). They played with sticks and swords, spent hours throwing rocks into the sea and sending the fish down after them. Adventures too many to name came and went, some perilous, some innocent but each as wonderfully exciting as the last. There were quiet days too, in between. Where Max would hunt food, and Jim would get to mensing whichever toys they had broke. Peter would fly off in search of tomorrow's game and George, well he was so young now he was content to lie on the ground and chatter away with the fairies that lived under their floorboards. Morse would sneak off, hole up somewhere alone.

The days spent amongst the trees were some of his favourites. He slipped a book in his back pocket and hung upside down from the tallest oak tree to read, the tawny owls keeping him company.

It was on one such day that it all changed, as Peter came crashing through the treetops looking breathless.

“Gather the boys!” He calls to Morse as he shoots past, to which Morse nods. He jumps from the tree - it is much easier now he knows how to fly properly; it has taken months but he is nearly as good as Peter now.

He runs inside and hauls Max up from the fire by the collar, dragging him to the table, where Peter has pulled George up from the floor. Morse calls out for Jim, who completes the quintet. The three musketeers, except there’s five of them, perhaps they are more like the knights of the round table. Firelight flickers, and sunlight gleams through high arched windows and you could quite easily see them donning silver and capes and pulling swords from stones. 

Peter slams a hand on the table, a crudely drawn map beneath his fingers. 

“I think I’ve found their treasure,” he says hurriedly, eyes shining. They needn’t ask whose - it’s the pirates. The excitement amongst them is palpable. 

“We attack at dawn!” 

By daybreak, when the western side of the island is just waking up, the boys are crawling through the undergrowth. They’ve dressed themselves in animal skins and smeared mud across their faces so they might pass the waking animals without notice. They journey to the rolling hills, the wide open fields that make up this side of the Neverland. At some point the land stops, and like the white cliffs of Dover, stop and drop off into a churning sea. A sea in which, unbeknownst to the boys the pirates are dropping anchor.

Morse feels, in his heart, a sort of melancholy. He isn’t sure what to do with it, he hasn’t felt like this in so long. It rattles around his chest as if trying to tell him something. It feels as if he too, is coming to the end of the grassland, and the floor is getting ready to fall from beneath him. An ending or sorts is coming, he can feel it. 

The treasure, Peter has told them, is buried inside a redwood tree, one the towers almost a hundred feet in the air. The inside is hollow, a cavernous interior that Peter has found a map to. All they have to do is follow it. 

When they emerge, some hours later, crowing in delights, all five of the boys are awash with gold and silver. Morse has pearls around his neck, emeralds spilling from his pockets, a diamond studded crown slipping down his head. Max is positively glittering with rings, Peter has found an ornate sword. George and Jim have found heavy cloaks, one the colour of the moon the other the sun. They fill their pockets with coins and shiny trinkets. George waves a goblet about and sings a few bars of an old sea shanty. It is the most marvellous adventure, and they celebrate their spoils loudly as they traipse the rolling hills. 

Above them, a bird crows, at which Peter cocks his head and frowns. 

“The birds,” he mutters, and Morse looks up to. He shields his eyes from the sun to glance up, shaking his head to toss the hair from his eyes - it’s grown ever so long now. 

“What’re they doing?” he asks.

“They’re running,” Peter says, picking up speed and flitting to the edge of the cliff. “There’s something-” he stops, as he peers over the edge. 

“Pirates,” he hisses, though he doesn’t look scared. He smiles back at the boys, pointing down towards the gently rocking ship. 

“How abouts another adventure?” 

* * *

Morse has heard about the captain of the Jolly Roger, though in all his time on the island never crossed paths with him. He is a great man, they say, or was once. A hero, Peter sometimes says, who had his head turned by the smell of gold. All might not have been lost, the stories say, till the night he vanished, reappearing the next morning looking drawn, with a terrible hook in place of his right hand. Nobody knew quite how it had happened, but he had never been the same since. They called him Hook now. 

Silently, the boys fly down to the ship, bouncing behind clouds and hiding in the shadows of birds, till they could drag their toes across the water and hide under the bow of the ship. It is a large beast of a thing, boards painted deep reds and blacks and trimmed with gold. Max, who is a fan of boats, runs his fingers along the ship longingly as they skirt around the starboard side to peer through the spindles that run the length of the ship. 

Most of the crew are a dirty looking lot, scraggly beards and scarred faces, hauling rope through calloused hands. They work with a dogged determination, all to the sound of a mouth organ. Jago is sat at a desk, feet flung up over the arms of the chair. He plays a short, repetitive ditty, occasionally stopping to hurl insults at a passing cabin boy. 

Morse cast his eyes about the deck. No sign or Box, or the captain. Peter nos towards the stern of the ship, the decorated windows of the captains quarters. Silent as the night, Morse flies around to peer through the topmost window. 

The room within is alight with a hundred candles, flickering in unison. If the boys had thought the treasure they had ladened themselves with was impressive, it was nothing compared to the piles of gold that lay in the ship. Either side of a grand table are piles of all sorts. Yet more fine clothes, jewels, plates and cups, golden sextants, you name it. 

Box sits at the table, merrily slinging back a bottle of rum, laughing. Opposite him, in a coat of the reddest cloth, sits the Hook. 

He is familiar to Morse, in the way Father Christmas is when he turns up just after your father leaves the room. One hand holds a pipe, which he is drawing on currently. The other hand is resting on the table - but it is not a hand no. It’s an iron hook, sharp and pointed. 

Fear washes over Morse, and he swallows hard. Something feels very, very wrong. 

Perhaps he stares too long, or perhaps something has happened at the other side of the ship, but all at once there’s a chorus of shouts from the deck, and Hook’s head snaps around. He catches Morse’s eye and it feels as though he looks right into his soul. Thursday. 

The name dances through Morse’s mind and then vanishes, replaced with a surge of excitement, as the fight begins. 

Box lunges for the window, but Morse has already scarpered, and he beats them round to the deck of the ship. The boys have charged, drawing their knives and swords and spears, and setting upon the pirates with relish. Morse dives in, drawing his own dagger and slamming it into the gut of a scrawny looking man. 

He barely notices the thundering footsteps charging towards them, the sound of Hook and Box charging through the fray. There is nothing for some time, except the clashing of weapons and the sound of shouts. Occasionally the crack of a whip or the explosive sound of a gun shatters the air, followed by a muffled cry as the pirate finds himself dead at the hands of Jim or George. 

It’s exhilarating, exciting; it’s the best game they have ever played. The sound of a mouth organ piping up cheerily behind him makes Morse stop short, and a wicked smile creeps over his face. He thinks he might know how to win this one. 

As he swings around, a cry tears itself from his lips. He lunges, and the blade in his hand finally finds its mark. Jago staggers as he wrenches it back, one hand pathetically clutching at his chest, before his legs hit the side of the ship. He wobbles for a moment, then his face pales and with a soft moan, the pirate topples over and into the sea. It was almost  _ too  _ easy. 

Excitement makes Morse’s hand tremble as he throws a hand up in cheer, the other boys cheering as the body sinks beneath the waves. Then a hand clamps itself around Morse’s outstretched fist, and he panics. His feet skid under him, as he finds himself hauled across the deck by Box. 

“Pathetic little  _ shit _ ,” he spits, spittle flying. Morse pulls and writhes, kicks and shouts, but Box is a towering giant and he barely comes up to his chest now. 

“Let him go you brute!” Max’s voice calls across the ship. Box spins, still dangling Morse like he weighs nothing, and laughs. A hand clamps around Morse’s throat and the panic sets in. He jerks and pulls, but Box only holds on tighter. Around them, the sounds of swords clashing and people shouting all swim and contort, till it’s all just ringing in his ears. The edges of his vision are fading out, his lungs on fire. 

“Morse!” Max again, louder this time, cutting through the darkness. “Morse, hold on, I’m coming!”

Then there’s warm wetness, all across his face, then he drops. 

The world snaps back into view with a deafening roar, and Morse finds himself staring into Max’s eyes. 

“You’re okay,” he says quietly, wiping something from Morse’s face. His hand comes away crimson. Still gulping for air, Morse’s eyes spin, confused, till he looks behind him. Box is laid out across the deck, mouth flung open, eyes glassy. A spear stands tall in the middle of his chest and blood is soaking into the ships boards. 

Max offers a tight smile. 

The pair of them are both about to throw themselves into a fight, when an arm comes down out of the corner of Morse’s eye, and a hook slams itself in Max’s shoulder. 

He cries out as he sinks to his knees, and the accompanying roar from the Captain silences the entire ship. 

Most of the pirates are dead now, but at their captains voice fall quite and freeze. The lost boys,  _ the city boys,  _ all dressed in their gold and jewels, stand, breathing heavy. 

Hook wrenches his claw from Max’s shoulder, the end dripping with blood. The boy cries out and falls back against the mast. 

Morse’s fingers tighten around his dagger. 

_ “ _ Who are you?” the captain asks, voice hoarse. Nobody else veen breathes. 

Morse has to stop a moment, because now he thinks about it, he’s not all that sure anymore. He hasn’t been for so long. He is proud, insolent youth, he thinks. No, that’s not right. He stands up a little straighter. Pushes the hair from his eyes, the crown listing on his head. 

“I’m just me, sir,” he says. The sir just happens, he didn’t mean it. “Just morse **”**

The captain looks him over, takes a step forward and grabs him by the jewels.

“Well  _ Morse _ ,” he says, with a force like thunder. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing on my ship?” The hook comes up and rests itself on Morse’s cheek, bloodied end resting below his eye. Morse tries to find it in him not to cry. 

“We’re- we-” he’s not sure  _ why.  _ “We’re here to fight,” he whispers. “We’re the good guys, you see. The heros. And you,” his voice grows a little stronger, and he finds himself able to meet this man’s eyes. 

“You’re the bad guy. Pirates. It’s bad form. It’s not right.” 

“You wretched child,” Hook hisses, shaking him. “You don’t know right from wrong - you need to grow up.” 

That sounds familiar, like a bell ringing in his head. 

“No, I won’t,” he says defiantly. 

“Brat!”

“Old man!”

“Child!”

“Codfish!” 

The pirate growls. 

“You arrogant, conceited little-” 

_ Oh.  _

Those words sound familiar. Morse’s head rings again. A niggling pain blossoms in his temple. He scowls, dazed by the sudden hurt. Hook raises his claw, as if to bring it down upon him. Peter shouts from behind them. 

“Morse watch out!” 

There’s no time to react, not even if he had wanted to. He could have pulled up his knife, dug it between the man's ribs, but somewhere inside of him, the boy knew the pirate would not hurt him. A sudden, childish sadness rushes through Morse at the thought, and he scrunches his eyes and cries out. 

“I’m sorry!” 

The hook freezes, inches from his chest. Through teary eyes, Morse peers up at the man. 

At that moment, the pirate in front of him flickers and flashes. The coat is gone, the hat and the jewels vanish. In his place, is just a sad, lonely looking man. Old suit and wrinkled hands, soft eyes and a weary smile. 

“I’m sorry too, Morse.” 

Not Hook, no not anymore.

Thursday. Detective Inspector Fred Thursday, of Thames Valley. Husband, father, boss; he is all those and more. But villain is not one of them. Morse is dropped, and Thursday steps back warily. 

A bird crows overhead.

Morse steps forward, and he realises it is with a heavier foot. He reaches out a hand. Have his arms always been this long? He seems to remember now, having being tall once. Of course he was, he had been a man, hadn’t he? Each step he takes, he remembers more of who he used to be. He wonders if he should stop, turn tail and run. Escape into the woods with his lost boys forever, stay here with them and never have to go back. 

He feels suddenly hot all over. He imagines for a moment he can hear someone calling his name. It echoes across the island, a whispered shout carried on the wind.

_ ‘Come on morse, don't go giving up on me now-’ _

He steps forward again. 

He’s wearing shoes now. Sensible ones. 

Again.

A coat, a real one, like a man might wear. 

Again.

The ship is fading from view.

Thursday is sitting at his desk, in his office. Morse steps up to it.

Peter, Max, Jim, George - they’re gone now. It’s just the two of them.

Detective Sergeant Morse holds out a hand, lined with some thirty odd years of life. 

“I think we can stop pretending now sir.” Has his voice always been so deep?

Thursday’s hand closes around his, and it is a comfort. It is home. 

A bird crows overhead.

* * *

He remembers, later, the cold wind on his face. Hands on him, fingers at his neck, warm bodies over him, shouting. He felt like he was flying again, as he was lifted into the air. The early morning sky stretched endlessly above him, soft grey with rolling clouds, struggling sunbeams creeping over the horizon slowly. Then the clatter of doors, the roof of a car. Wires and tubes pushed through his skin. God it’s cold. He can’t move. 

He breathes and his lungs tremble. 

God it’s cold.

A wordless voice above him, comforting, soft. Warm.

He sighs.

Warm.  _ Home _ . 

He sleeps.

Waking up he feels strangely well rested. He blinks once, twice, and then a long sigh escapes him. The bed isn’t comfortable, and these sheets are nothing like Jim’s handsewn quilts in the hideout. Morse jerks awake. He’s not in the hideout. He’s nowhere near it. He has the most bittersweet feeling that he’ll never find it again.

A hospital that’s where he is now. With it’s sharp smells and its squeaky floors, and its slumped inspectors sleeping in hard plastic chairs. There’s a bunch of lilies in a vase on his bedside table. 

His limbs feel heavy, but he swings them around, gets out of the tightly swaddled sheets. His shifting wakes Thursday, who watches with wide eyes as Morse gets his bearings. 

“Morse?” 

He turns, brain annoyingly slow. Words don’t follow for a few seconds. 

“Sir?” 

Thursday lets out a relieved chuckle, but there are tears in his eyes. 

“What-” he starts, but his throat is dry. He tries to reach for the glass of water beside his bed, but his heavy fingers are useless. Thursday helps him up, holds it to his lips. They get a few mouthfuls in him before he collapses back against the pillows. 

“What happened?” he asks a little clearer this time. 

Thursday frowns, then waves a hand. 

“We were hoping you could help us with that, but ah- another time perhaps. You just rest.” 

He moves as if to stand, and Morse’s hand finally finds itself ready to move. He grabs Thursday’s wrist, pleading. 

“Sir, what happened?” There’s a long, aching pause. When Thursday speaks, it’s with a voice like broken glass, as if every word is a struggle. 

“You… were gone Morse. You went missing,” he pauses, rubs a hand across his chin.

“How long?”

“Three months. Three months, just. Gone. We thought you were-”

“Oh.” Morse remembers the night he left. Standing by his window, ready to jump. The days he had spent on the island. Had it been three months? It felt like so much longer. It had all been so real, yet now he thinks about it, it had all been so absurd. Like a dream. 

“We found you,” Thursday breaks through his foggy memories. “A week ago, just lying in some ditch, you were half dead Morse.” He lets out a sad sounding laugh. Morse tries to remember the night he flew away, the day he landed on the island with Peter. The harder he tries, the more it floats away from him. It must have been a dream, not that he can work out what really happened. 

“In your nightclothes, you were.” He fishes something from his pocket and hangs it from his fingertips. A string of pearls. Morse’s stomach rolls, and his head throbs. 

“This was all you had on you. Where the hell have you- Morse?”

It’s his turn to cry now, big ugly tears streaming down his face. 

“Come on now,” Thursday reaches forward, arm curling across his shoulders in the practiced way of a father. “Come on, tell me lad, why are you crying?” 

He struggles to breath for a second. 

“Peter?” he asks dumbly. “Peter, ‘n George - they-” 

If there’s a question in there, he hasn’t asked it, but Thursday seems to know what he means. 

“Peter’s in America, Morse, you know that. George… remember he died, nearly two years ago now.” 

Morse nods, wearily. Of course. He knew that. It had all just been a dream, or something like it. But the pearls - none of it made sense. 

Thursday’s hand rubs slow circles on his back, an automatic comforting gesture. When Morse struggles to say anything more, he sighs. 

“Look, Morse,” he starts gruffly. “I”m not sure what all this is about. You’ve obviously been through the wars, but I’m sure we’ll figure it all out, once you’re better.” His voice grew thicker still. 

“I know I- well I haven’t done right by you. Not for a long while. I’ve said things I’m not proud of. Done things I’m not proud of either. But… when you went, Morse. When you were gone. Jesus, Morse I was terrified. We all were. But I couldn’t help thinking I had- that I- that you did something because-” 

Morse looks up, the tears finally subsiding, and scrubs at his face with his fingers. 

“Sir-” 

“No, let me finish Morse, please. I thought that you… If you had died, Morse and it was my fault - if I’d… Well I need to apologise. So, I’m sorry.” 

Morse turns, half burying his face in his pillow. He just about managed to meet Thursday’s eye. 

“I should too. I’ve not been a very good bagman recently. There’s nothing to apologise for, really I- I brought this on myself.” He realises what that sounds like, and hurries to correct himself. 

“Not this- I don’t- I never…. I don’t know what happened, if I’m honest.” He stares out, into the middle distance. His head is hurting again.

“We’ll figure it out Morse, in time.” 

They fall silent then, for a long while. Morse watches the sunlight dance its way across the window, and begin it’s decent beyond the horizon. 

Thursday only speaks once more that evening, as he hands Morse that week's crossword section. 

“You alright, Morse?” 

He has to think. A smile finds its way to Morse’s lips. 

“I’m not sure. But I will be, I think perhaps,” his smile stretches, eyes twinkling. “One day, when I grow up.” 

**Author's Note:**

> that was a journey. this was supposed to be a little collection of scene idk when it became this... lemme know whatcha think id be v grateful to hear!


End file.
